Punishment
by Socrates7727
Summary: After weeks at the tower, Bucky can't escape the guilt. They all want to help him but none of them understand-they can't. Except Natasha. BuckyNat / WinterWidow physical harm warning. Two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

AN I don't own Marvel or any of its characters!

* * *

At the tower, there were a lot of people who wanted to be his friends and even his family. They wanted to understand anything he would tell them. But none of them understood what he needed. The guilt was killing him, eating him alive. No one could help that. No amount of therapy could help that. And he was convinced there was nothing, no hope or point to any of it. Until Natasha walked in.

Natasha understood the guilt and the only thing that could take it away. She understood the need to be… punished. He'd been the one to teach it to her all those years ago, after all, so it was no surprise when the way she looked at him was immediately calculating and intrigued.

"I know your limits, James, and I will not push them if I think for a second that you're lying to me. Same rules as always. You tell me when." He just nodded, too afraid to look up from the floor. Fear was a rather new thing to him because it was one of the things they'd tried so viciously to program out of him. And to someone having grown up with fear every day, it wouldn't have been a big deal. But he couldn't remember feeling afraid or how he'd handled it and he lacked all those little fears and building blocks to let him cope with it now so it usually took him to his knees. Fitting, he thought, for repentance.

"You know the rules," she said softly, already pulling his shirt over his head and letting her fingers linger in his hair. "Count." She didn't waste any time. The second he was stripped and she could reach every inch of exposed skin, she was on him. Before he could even think to brace himself there was the sharp, hot sting of leather slashing into his back. He barely grit his teeth. She wanted to be gentle with him, he could feel it, and he understood that desire all too well but gentle wouldn't help either of them now. Gentle was for after.

"I know you can hit harder than that, Romanova." Anger flashed in her eyes-his intention-and the next blow left a welt. He sighed a bit and sank over the arm of the couch.

"One." He wasn't going to count any hit that wasn't hard enough and she knew that already because she'd done the same to him. She switched weapons suddenly and he felt the thud of a much flatter, much heavier bit of leather collide with his skin. It flared with heat, and tingled.

"Two." She was tense and he could feel it without even looking at her but she didn't say a word. She hit him again, and again, and then again. But the blows were spread out and varied enough that they only stung. He shifted and rolled his shoulder in place. She took the cue instantly and reacted-she wasn't hitting hard enough if a little positional discomfort was his main concern.

"You hurt all those people…" The words stung more than his aching skin for a moment but she stopped that with another thwack! He felt her put her entire body weight behind it and when the buckle of the belt hit his skin, he hissed.

"So many confirmed kills… I have to wonder how many never made it into the books." Thwack!

"Twenty six." She knew the words hurt more. It was the intention-he'd taught her that, too-but that didn't make the pain any more bearable. He felt the emotion fill his lungs like liquid and he was drowning in it, flailing and grasping frantically for anything he could hold on to. Another hit, and he steadied.

"Twenty seven." Again and again she alternated never giving him any warning between the dull thud of the leather or the bite of the metal buckle but that made it so much better.

"Bosnia."

Thwack!

"Tel Aviv."

Thwack!

"Tallahassee."

Thwack!

Every hit he took came with a place, even if she didn't say them all. He didn't remember names or faces of targets-as much as that killed him-but he remembered where because that information had been relevant and useful. Places, but never people. Every muscle in his entire body coiled tighter and tighter with every blow she dealt. He heard himself counting but it didn't register. All he let himself focus on was the heavy, reverberating thuds of the flogger against his back, his ass, his shoulders. It was easy to lose himself in the rhythm of it, taking shaky breaths between hits and bracing his muscles just because it made each blow hit that much harder.

"Count." Shit he'd missed one. She'd noticed, undoubtedly, and he knew she was scrutinizing his every hesitation and movement, watching for the slightest hint he wasn't okay.

"Sorry. One." She didn't say anything when he started over but he knew she was watching closely now. Had he started over because of his mistake? Or because he couldn't remember what number they were on anymore? He wasn't sure he knew the answer, was all starting to blur together and what felt like the sharpest agony he'd ever experienced one minute morphed into sweet, savory relief the next. It was fleeting, but it was starting. This was the routine, this was what they knew, and he was expecting her to stop the second he made a sound but, gradually, he couldn't stop himself from hissing or groaning into the couch cushion. She didn't stop, though.

At thirty one, the second time, he felt it. She used the thin, multi-string little whip sparingly because it drew blood faster and harsher than any other weapon but his genetic modifications kept his skin intact above all else. He felt blisters and welts rise on the surface while patches stretched so thin under the swelling he was sure they would snap but every hit only left bruises and red marks in its wake. But on thirty one, she drew blood.

The liquid seeped out from under his skin like poison and it dripped down his back, spreading warmth and a sick metallic smell with it. Fuck. Each drop that slipped out felt like arsenic pulled from his veins and he lost himself in it. Like sin escaping his body. It wasn't a lot of blood, but the slow trickling little drips felt better than any gush of blood could have. Slow, like it was drawing out his punishment. He ground his teeth together but focused on the hot liquid as it hit the waist of his sweats and soaked into them. A reminder of the punishment. But, at the sight of blood, she hesitated.

"Thirty one." He repeated, clenching his fists in the material of the couch so tightly he was sure they would break. She continued, moving back to the heavier fogger out of fear of doing actual damage, but it didn't matter. The leather didn't thud anymore, it splattered. The blood worried her, he knew, but he didn't care. He gripped the couch cushion tighter, grit his teeth, and continued counting.

"Thirty nine." But he barely heard himself say the words, he was too focused on the pain. With every splat or thwack he felt the dominos begin to fall faster and faster inside his chest. Every drop of blood that spilled felt like a thousand sins being lifted off his shoulders. Every hot, dizzying flash of pain made him breathe. He had done a lot of things but he rarely ever tortured-he killed-and, while that was far from right, it was more peaceful. He didn't draw it out. He was quick and clean-mechanical. They'd never felt this pain, not from him, and that was what let it settle into his bones and hold him in a sick embrace.

"Forty nine." For some reason, the nines were always what did him in. Maybe it was the anticipation of the next, bigger number or the fear that she would emphasize the multiple of ten with a harder hit but the nines were always what broke him, even if it was gradual. Tears started down his face.

He couldn't help it, really, and he didn't care but she saw it and hesitated. Fuck didn't she understand how much he needed her to keep going? He tried to take deep breaths and compose himself but the pain seared into his muscles until he felt like a balloon seconds away from bursting. But he was still rigid, holding the couch so hard he was shocked he hadn't broken any part of it. She ran a worried hand through his hair but he hissed and arched away. Not yet.

"Forty nine." He repeated again, almost commanding in his tone. They were both surprised by the strength there, given the tears on his face and the blood dripping down his back, but he just swallowed whatever begging he was prepared to do. His voice wavered and it was choked with tears but he'd said it-he hadn't said the magic word, she couldn't stop. Not yet, not when he was so close. She sighed but stepped back into position and hit him again, just as hard as all the others so he would count it but with a little less determination behind it.

"Fifty." He was shaking uncontrollably, his hands balled into white fists and his entire body spasming in protest at the beating, but she kept going.

"Fifty one." She managed to hit a particularly sore welt and the contrast of the sudden, sharp pain made him stifle a sob.

"Fif' two." He was slurring his words, now, and shaking even harder. But he'd reacted so violently to her gentle touch before that she didn't dare move out of position again. Another hit.

"Fif' tree." Fuck he felt like he was on fire. His muscles burned and his own blood was cold on his skin as he trembled against the air.

"Fif' four…" He chest screamed in protest and refused him oxygen. His vision began to blur and he wobbled, teetering on the edge of oblivion, but he didn't say it.

"James…" He snarled at her, though, and got another hit hard against one of the bloody whip marks on his ass. Fuck so close.

"Fif-five." The metal of the buckle hit just below his shoulder blade and sent another round of sickly sweet warmth through his body. "Fif-six."

"James."

"Fifty six." Another hit straight against his spine that shot electric agony through his entire body and it was so damn close to Zola and his chair that he nearly collapsed. He couldn't breathe. It took a full minute for him to get the strength to speak.

"Fifty seven." His ass again, thank God. It distracted him from the memory and let him focus. Penance. The pain slide through his muscles like honey and singed his insides until he felt like he was disintegrating but this was penance.

"Fif' eight." He could feel his body anticipating the nine, tensing and bracing against it as if making it hurt more would help. She hesitated. But then the whistle of leather whipping through the air hit his ears and the sweet, sweet agony of the metal buckle collided against his skin so violently he felt it leave a mark. And that was all he could take.

He never even got out the words fifty nine before he just crumbled right then and there over the arm of the couch. Relief washed over him. Sobs racked his body and he arched and curled in on himself, trying to get away from the pain before she dealt another blow, but she'd stopped. She was beside him instantly.

"James." But he didn't flinch away or hiss at her to keep going. He leaned into her palm and shuddered.

"S'enough." She ran a hand through his sweaty hair and made him look her in the eyes, if only for a moment, to make sure he was alright. When he didn't speak, she moved away. Her absence beat into him harder than the leather ever had and the only thing that stopped him from screaming for her was the touch of her hand to his shoulder. Painful, but anchoring. She cleaned his wounds-gently-but they were already healing. He refused any kind of pain medication, only accepting the water she gave him, but didn't dare try to move from where he was hunched over the arm of the couch. Slowly, she coaxed him and lifted them both up onto the cushions. He collapsed, one leg thrown over hers and his face pressed into her chest, but she just held him even as his body was ravaged by sobs.

"Shhhhhh James… It's okay." But, strangely, it was okay. His body throbbed and stung but his chest was lighter than it'd been in years and finally he felt like he could breathe. He could breathe. She ran her fingers through his hair and lingered at the nape of his neck but he merely sighed into her. Guilt wasn't pressing down on his chest, squeezing away his every bit of oxygen. The only thought he could manage through the haze was thank God.

Thank God she understood.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Review please!


	2. Chapter 2

AN I don't own Marvel or any of its characters! WinterWidow angsty fluff!

* * *

Of all people, it had to be Steve. Bucky knew, semi-consciously, that they'd probably sent Steve because he was the only one that had ties to both him and Nat and was least likely to be attacked, but that didn't really help. His face said more than any logical explanation could have.

He was horrified. Rightly so, considering it'd only been a few hours and Bucky's entire back and ass were still a sickly shade of purple. The super soldier seemed to almost completely skip over the fact that he was naked. Or that he was currently curled around Natasha. His eyes were stuck on the bruises and welts that littered Bucky's skin.

"Who did this to you." It wasn't a question. Steve was beyond angry and more than a little protective of him in normal situations so Bucky wasn't shocked to see that possessiveness flare again. But, as much as he should have taken responsibility and answered his best friend, he couldn't. He couldn't face those blue eyes or that quivering lip. Instead, he buried his face in Natasha's sweatshirt and silently begged her to handle this, to just make it go away so they could go back to comforting each other in peace. She tightened a hand in his hair and shushed him.

"Relax, Steve." Steve was the opposite of relaxed, and bristled even more so at Natasha's voice. "I did it." She didn't explain. As Bucky listened to the gut-churning silence, he couldn't help the urge to explain or at least defend her because he felt Steve's fury turn on the redhead and he didn't want that. But he couldn't, his voice had disappeared somewhere between the sobs, so he just hid his face and let her deal with Steve.

"Natasha. You did this to him?" There was so much disbelief in Steve's voice that Bucky winced. The goody-two-shoes didn't want to believe that his friend had that in her, which stung, but he braced himself regardless. Tense against Natasha's body, he waited.

"He asked me to." There it was. Immediately, every atom of oxygen left the room and he felt those pain-filled blue eyes turn on him. They bore into his back, burning through the damage, and tried to see into his soul but, honestly, there wasn't much left. Bucky struggled to see it himself most days.

"Is that true, Buck?" He had to response. He knew he had to say something, anything, in answer because if he didn't it would look bad for Natasha but his voice refused. Silently, he nodded. And then he felt it.

Disappointment.

It radiated off of Steve in waves, pounding into both of them over and over again until he couldn't breathe. That was why they'd kept it secret. Not because Steve would be mad, but because he didn't understand. He had his own demons but he dealt with them his way. The Steve Rogers way-growing his own food, doing yoga, meditating, going to therapy-not the dark way. Bucky had honestly tried to go along with that plan at first and he knew Natasha had to when she joined but it didn't work.

Steve was this glowing light of goodness who just got a little darkness splattered on him by accident. He could wipe it off with other good things. But Bucky and Natasha? They were more like darkness itself that somehow managed to have a few feeble nightlights hidden inside. Yoga and chia smoothies couldn't help them. Even therapy, though helpful, wasn't enough. Because millions of people could love and embrace them, could scream that it wasn't their fault and that they were forgiven, but they would never forgive themselves. Even if Steve begged them to let go of the guilt, they couldn't.

Because it didn't seem right to take all those lives, hurt all those people, and just… move on. They'd hurt people. They deserved pain in return. Steve and the others argued that they'd suffered their entire lives, in a different way, but it wasn't the same. Nothing compared to that sharp, visceral pain of a beating. He'd thought it was twisted at first, too, but he'd seen the other Winter Soldiers use it to strengthen themselves and he'd given it a try. The first time in nearly three decades that he'd been able to breathe.

Now, they didn't do it often. Both him and Natasha had the serum in their veins so the wounds healed relatively quick and never required treatment or a hospital visit-never raised any questions. It was just little bits, usually, little reminders that helped ground them. But, sometimes, that wasn't enough. Sometimes, especially as Bucky got his memory back, it was impossible not to be swept up in the sea of guilt and drown in it until he wished he was dead. That was what had sparked this most recent scene. Another memory, another nightmare, and it continued until he couldn't breathe without hating himself for even being alive.

But Steve didn't understand that. It was clear in his face how completely _shocking_ the mere idea of wanting to be punished was to him and that only made Bucky feel worse. He looked disgusted, even if it was unintentional, and Bucky immediately regretted sneaking a look. Nothing would ever be able to shake that from his memory now and it only made him hate himself more for letting Steve see him like this. If he'd been stronger, if he'd just dealt with it, Steve wouldn't have found out. If he'd told Natasha to leave him in his room-alone-after the beating Steve wouldn't have found out. But now he knew. And there was no way either of them would ever be able to come back from this.

"Buck?" Steve was crying, now. Bucky felt his face flush with shame and humiliation but Natasha carded a hand through his hair as reassurance. How the hell was she so calm about this!? Probably because she wasn't the one blistering under those baby blues.

"Steven." He sucked in a breath as he felt those eyes shift to Natasha. "Calm down. You don't have to understand or agree with it, but you do have to calm down." He felt her flash a pointed look to where he was huddled into her chest but ignored it. Steve didn't care. Now, Bucky was just as disgusting and disappointing as any of the other Shield recruits who turned out to be just a little too dark to be saved. Their history didn't matter anymore, he was just another failure.

But, shockingly, he felt the tension in the room ease. It was slight-Steve was clearly still very upset-but it was enough that he could ease his face out of her sweatshirt and breathe. Natasha thumbed his pulse point and repositioned her arm around his waist. He could feel them having a silent conversation above him but he didn't care to know what was being said, honestly. Natasha's hold had taken on that protective quality it always got after their sessions and he sank into it as if she could save him from the sea of emotions he was currently adrift in. She welcomed him, and kept Steve's attention on her. Thank god Natasha understood.

Slowly, their conversation seemed to help Steve relax and Bucky relaxed a bit in response. He had no doubt that Steve would never understand the punishments or why they needed them so badly but at least he wasn't angry anymore. Bucky hadn't even realized Steve had been raising his voice or that he'd hid in Natasha's arms from it until there was quiet and he emerged from them. Just a bit, at first, but then a little more.

Steve was sitting on the coffee table with his hands folded in his lap. He looked remarkably calm. If not for the few tears that occasionally slid down those chiselled cheeks, Bucky would have thought he'd been mind wiped or knocked out. Natasha kissed his forehead when she noticed he was looking but Steve just took that in too, surprisingly. Had Natasha threatened him or something?

" _James, Steve's sorry._ " The Russian sank into him like a tranquilizer and he sighed. " _It's okay now, he's not angry or upset he just didn't understand._ "

" _Still doesn't._ " She laughed a bit, shaking him on her chest, but just smoothed his hair.

" _Hey, come on. I said it was okay. You trust me, right?_ " He did, and she knew that, which was what made him lift his head. Steve met his eyes but there was nothing in them that Bucky could decipher-which he couldn't decide if that was good or bad-so Bucky just stayed still. He didn't want to spark any kind of reaction or undo whatever Natasha did.

"It's okay, Buck." But as much as he liked and remembered Steve, this was different. This kind of vulnerable wasn't him without his memories or him as a teenager or him being rescued. Steve's unshakable faith in him didn't help right now. What did help was Natasha's lithe fingers combing through his hair and soothing the crick in his neck as a reward for trusting her. He sighed and relaxed a bit more into her.

Natasha must have nodded for Steve to leave at some point because the blond stood and made his way towards the elevator when Bucky didn't strike up a conversation, but he threw one last look over his shoulder. He looked confused, but more sad than revolted, which was progress. The second the doors closed behind him, Bucky turned back and buried his face into Natasha again as she chuckled. He felt raw and exposed and he just wanted her to make it better but she just laughed a bit and kissed his forehead.

"Good, you did good James." He purred and she kissed his temple. "Thank you for trusting me." It was in her voice that she didn't mean just now, she meant the punishment, but he could only nod because then her lips were on his. Like hot chocolate, she soothed every ounce of anxiety in his body. He sighed into the kiss, even if her touch made him want to grab for her and take this so much farther, because he was tired and she was protecting him and that was more than he could have ever asked for.

To feel safe. Protected. To linger in the aftermath of his punishment and let her soothe all the little fears he held in his chest on a daily basis. He let the guilt wash off of him and he breathed. Deep, full breaths that gave him more oxygen than he'd had in years and made his brain fuzzy as if it was a drug. Maybe relaxation was a drug? But he shook his head because if anything about their current situation was like an actual tranquilizer, not just to his body, but to his mind?

It was the fact that Natasha understood.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Hope you liked my follow up on Punishment! Please review!


End file.
